Home Invasion
by ficdirectory
Summary: The BAU is caught unaware on a night off, and find themselves victims of a home invasion. CHAPTER 1 ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: 10/8/10. ALL OTHERS WRITTEN 2011. **Nominated: Best Oneshot in the 2010 Criminal Minds Fanfiction Awards at Livejournal when it was a oneshot **
1. Chapter 1

_The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth._  
- Chinese Proverb

There is nothing left to do but run.

Run or curl up and admit defeat, and that, frankly, is not an option. So, there is a bag. It's packed with a few things.

An escape is made quietly. In the dead of night. With no one watching. With no one the wiser.

This is how JJ escapes.

Out a window, left half-up, with a ragged screen.

She plunges into the woods, crawling with creatures she can't identify - she only hopes they aren't angry or hungry. Hopes that she can somehow get in contact with her team. But everything is gone. Her credentials. Her gun. Her phone. She doesn't even have her vest now.

But looking over her shoulder at the house, she steels herself, knowing the truth:

She doesn't have her team anymore either. 

* * *

They didn't need an occassion to get together. They liked seeing each other. And the promise of Derek cooking anything had them all curious enough to show up late one night after a stressful case. They had done it once in a while. For Garcia's spaghetti, or Haley's chicken and rice. Derek had promised homemade, Chicago-style pizza.

At the last minute, Emily almost backed out, but JJ had made sure to pick her up on the way, knowing she was down about a recent case, and sure that time alone wasn't about to improve her mood - but time with friends might.

JJ would think later that one of them should have seen something, but no one had. She herself had walked in with her guard completely down, and found herself being strangled with something she couldn't place.

She hadn't been able to call out and warn Emily, who was dragging behind, having insisted that she would be right there. Then JJ lost consciousness and things came in spurts.

Derek knocked out and tied to a rolling office chair.

Garcia, shaking in a corner, with a gun pointed at her.

Emily handcuffed to the leg of Derek's table. Spencer, bound and gagged on the floor.

Hotch was alert, though blood ran from a gash at his temple, and JJ watched him fake unconsciousness so he wouldn't be found out. He was in another corner and kept raising his eyebrows at her in some kind of a signal, but JJ was still too woozy to figure it out.

Strangling had to be her least favorite way to go...ever since her sister.

JJ glanced again at Spencer, doing a double-take at the sleeves of his shirt, rolled to the elbows - fresh needle-marks in the crooks of both elbows.

How long had she been out? Minutes? Hours? How long had this unsub been in Derek's house?

No, she needed to focus. She needed to think like a profiler, even though she wasn't one.

The better question was how did this person know so much about them? To know that Garcia hated guns and Spencer had a history with being injected with drugs? That Derek hated being powerless more than anything? That for Emily, with all her fierceness and bravado, being cuffed to a table leg was torture. Not only was she made a prisoner, but she was being put on the same level as the offender. And Emily hated identifying with the unsub. And, worst of all, that JJ had developed an inherent fear of being choked or hanged, after her sister's suicide when JJ was eleven.

But JJ knew there were ways for unsubs to get that kind of information. They could have hacked computers. Stalked them. Anything.

The only one of them who didn't appear to be here was Rossi. That could mean a couple things. He was there with them, but being kept in a different room. Or he hadn't arrived yet and was running late.

JJ's stream-of-consciousness thoughts were cut short when the unsub approached her, dressed in all black, his face obscured from her view.

"You're the voice, right? For the victims?"

Wordless, JJ nodded, fighting not to back away. Not to show fear, as he subtlely brandished the wire coat hanger he had used to garrote her, inside his long, black coat.

"I want you to give them a message. The message is this: I'm going to kill them. And you. It's just a matter of time."

She knew then that Rossi wasn't there yet. That he was the missing piece. That the longer he took arriving, the better chance all of them had of surviving. Deftly, she checked her pocket, and found it empty. JJ tried not to let anything show. Instead, she took a deep breath, steadying herself, and went to Garcia.

"He says he's going to kill us," JJ told her loud enough so he could hear, and then dropped her voice. "Do you still have your phone?"

"Yeah. Yeah. It's right here," And like magic, Garcia produces it from her brassiere - the one place this unsub has not thought to look. "But I don't know if - if the buttons will work, because I'm shaking," Garcia managed.

"Listen to me. You need to tell Rossi something. Give him a heads-up. Tell him we're stuck at Derek's. It's trouble. Whatever you can," JJ managed, squeezing her shoulder.

"Move," his voice said behind her and she obeyed, with one last desperate look at her friend.

Silently, she made her way to the others. Emily had been hobbled, by a blow to the knee, so even if she could get out of the cuffs there was no chance she could escape.

JJ worked quickly, going to everyone else, and trying to give and take as much information as possible, but sometimes, like with Spencer, there was no point. He wasn't himself, still talking incoherently about how he didn't want drugs when it was obvious he'd already received them against his will.

"You'll be okay," she reassured, kissing his forehead.

"You've got to get out, while he's letting you move around," Hotch urged. "Pay attention. When you see an out, take it."

"He's going to kill us," JJ reported calmly. Only Hotch caught the slight nod she gave at his words.

Derek was mumbling and JJ almost didn't stop to talk to him. But she heard it. "The window, where the screen's bad...and take my bag. Don't get lost in the woods. Just look for the lights on the road, and then..." he trails off, losing conciousness again.

It isn't much, but it's enough. Derek's house only has one window with a bad screen. His bathroom.

JJ spends a few moments watching their unsub. The way he avoids Derek at all costs, and Hotch, too. But, no, it's not them he's avoiding. It's the blood.

He's squeamish.

JJ meets Garcia's eyes and she's able to catch a ghost of a nod.

Rossi knows. Good.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," JJ says, convincingly, too, because it was true.

"Go. Three minutes." 

* * *

The bag is lying behind the bathroom door like a gift. She doesn't know what's in it, or why Derek wants her to take it, but she doesn't question it. The window in the bathroom is already open and, like Derek alluded, it doesn't have a screen.

Somehow, JJ gets out with the bag. She hits the ground running and does not stop until she is in camouflaged by the woods. Even though her lungs are burning. Even though her airway still feels like it's being squeezed.

She does not hesitate. She does what Derek says. She runs for the road.

JJ almost collapses on the shoulder. There are no red-and-blue lights signaling freedom and rescue. There is nothing but darkness.

After several minutes pass and JJ's heart is in her throat, a vehicle slows. She sees upon further inspection that it's Rossi and the local law enforcement. She is taken into the SUV. 

* * *

Hours pass.

Slowly, more are released, with Rossi acting as head negotiator. First Garcia. Then Spencer. Then Emily.

For Hotch and Derek, they move in, because their unsub has made it clear that these two aren't making it out alive.

They do, though.

Whether, bruised, bloody, high, unconscious, traumatized, or chained, they all emerge.

And JJ breathes a sigh of relief.


	2. Chapter 2

_One need not be a chamber to be haunted;  
One need not be a house;  
The brain has corridors surpassing  
Material place._  
- Emily Dickinson

The escape is not the remarkable thing.

The remarkable thing is that they are all alive and relatively unharmed. If you discounted Hotch and Derek's head injuries - Hotch needs stitches and Derek has a concussion. Emily's cruciate ligaments are a mess, and she has a nasty indentation from the cuffs around her wrist. JJ hasn't actually seen Spencer yet, but she hopes he is coming down from whatever that asshole gave him. Garcia has not stopped shaking. JJ knows because they insist on sharing a hospital room. When something gets dropped down the hall, Garcia jumps a foot.

JJ does not think about herself. She does not think of how horrible she must look. The pain alone tells her it must be bad. She imagines her sister. She wonders, was it like that for her? In the last moments did she fight, wishing to take it back? Did it hurt to breathe? To try and speak?

Shaking her head, JJ forces herself to clear it. She cannot get lost in grief. Not now. So she gets out of bed and walks to Garcia, holding her hand and rubbing her back. JJ wonders if it is normal to not have registered the pain speaking caused - the weird high-pitched noise she made when she breathed - during the attack.

Now, she notices them. It hurts so bad to try and speak that she stays silent.

She prays for her friends and for herself. 

* * *

Garcia goes home first. Then Hotch and Derek and Emily. Then JJ. Spencer stays the longest, because he has side effects from the dilaudid. He is difficult to rouse. He has a seizure, like when Tobias held him captive, except this one is not from hitting his head on the floor, this one, doctors say, is from the drugs themselves.

Derek does not have a place to stay, because his house is a crime scene. Since Hotch has Jack, and Garcia is jumpy enough to put everyone on edge, JJ invites Derek home with her. Will is out of town with Henry anyway. He has been staying with Emily, but that just isn't working out.

"The woman is crazy," Derek complained. "Chasin' me around with a damn blanket and aspirin.

JJ makes a sympathetic face. Smiles. Though she _can_ talk, she is scared to. Scared of the enormous pain, like her larynx swelling or splitting or something else equally bad.

She wears turtlenecks, even though it's March in Virginia and that's just ridiculous. She cannot face herself in the mirror.

"You can speak, right?" Derek asks, lounging in her easy chair, his feet up.

JJ gives him a look like he is stupid. Because what kind of question is that.

"Well, speak, then."

JJ purses her lips and cocks her head. Her hand goes to her hip involuntarily.

"Whoa. Okay. Sorry. I know you're not a dog," he says, reading her thoughts. "It's just...it's not gonna get any easier if you keep avoiding it. Nothing's broken, is it?"

"...No," she manages, her first word in days. To her surprise, it doesn't hurt much - isn't as bad as she anticipates.

"Okay, then," he flips on the TV and wrinkles in brow. "What the hell is this? Am I not allowed to watch anything other than kiddie shows?"

JJ smiles. The Henry filter is in place, blocking any program that is not rated G.

"Seriously, what's your code?"

She tips her chin, the challenge clear in her blue eyes.

"Oh, you want _me_ to figure it out. Really? Okay..." Derek takes out his cell and hits a number.

"Yeah, Garcia. What's Henry's DOB?"

JJ rolls her eyes. He is unbelievable.

"8-8-08? You gotta be kiddin' me." Derek puts in the numbers and the screen fills with a picture on the first try.

He smiles at JJ and does a strange little gyrating dance in the chair, careful not to move his head around too much.

"Thanks, Baby Girl. Hey, you okay? Yeah, we're fine. Just trying to watch something that's not fit for a toddler. Come over if you're bored. Love you." 

* * *

They have watched hours of ESPN, CNN and National Geographic by the time Derek gets tired of it. JJ has gotten tired of it ages ago, and is checking her emails on her phone.

"When do you think they'll let Spence out of the hospital?" she asks. JJ hates how weak her voice sounds, but she has to know.

"I don't know. With the seizure, it's hard to tell..."

There is a pause and he studies her with an unflinching gaze.

"Did I ever tell you thanks?" he asks, not looking away.

"No...and it's fine... I didn't do anything...just ran through woods that terrify me in the dark and found the road like you said."

"You saved our asses." He says it appreciatively. "Listen, I know we butt heads sometimes, but you understand that I love you. You know that, right?"

"I do," JJ nods just a little, because doing more than that hurts.

"Good," Derek says, as if that closes the matter. He leans back and closes his eyes.

JJ does understand because this is her family. Because she loves them all. And she will do it again if she has to.

She will do it all again, if it will yield the same results.

Her team. Not perfect. Not unscathed. But alive. With her.

Always with her.


	3. Chapter 3

_My life closed twice before its' close-  
It yet remains to see  
If Immortality unveil  
A third event to me.  
So huge, so hopeless to conceive  
As these that twice befell.  
Parting is all we know of heaven,  
And all we need of hell._  
- Emily Dickinson

For the first time in Reid's life, it is hard to think. He feels vulnerable without the shield of intellect. The facts he can spout off with no one caring, or everyone impressed.

When they ask him where he is, Reid has to open his eyes for clues. He knows he isn't home. He knows he isn't at work. Or on the field. It smells uniquely of something, but Reid can't explain what.

All he sees are white walls. A blinding white. He is in a strange gown, and people with odd instruments come by to poke him with them.

"Hospital," he says, and his voice sounds raspy.

He wonders why he is here, but he is too tired to do anything about it. Too confused to even begin to form a question to ask, so he takes the coward's way. He sleeps until he cannot sleep because they are prodding and poking him with their tools. Asking him questions and expecting him to understand.

That's just it, though. He doesn't. He doesn't know how he got here, or why.

But then he studies the crooks of his arms, and there lies the truth in the little puncture marks. He does not remember relapsing.

Is this his fault?

He lets his eyes close. 

* * *

"Spencer?"

"Hmm?" he asks and his voice still won't work like it should.

"Hey, kiddo. What's my name?"

Italian-American. 50-something. Probably Catholic. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A reassuring voice. Fatherly. He writes books. He's a part of the team. He likes to hunt. He has a cabin. He's married and divorced multiple times. He is the only one who ever calls him kiddo. The first time is today.

"Rossi?" he croaks, blinking.

It is still too bright. He still does not know what happened, but Reid feels a shame he cannot put words to, for the unspeakable weakness of going back.

He looks away.

"Hey..." Rossi covers Reid's hand with his own, a startlingly paternal gesture, and Reid has to fight not to pull away. "Do you remember anything?"

He shakes his head.

"Hey. This?" Rossi gestures to the marks on Reid. "Is not your fault. That's the only thing you need to know right now, okay?"

"Okay..." Reid nods. He isn't sure it's true. And he is pretty sure it is not the only thing he needs to know. "But..." his tongue feels thick, and it's hard to form words. Hard to string them together into the right sentence. "If I did this. It _is_ my fault."

"Yes, _if_ you did this. But you didn't. Someone did this _to you_."

There is compassion in Rossi's eyes that Reid can't stand. He has to look away.

"...Again?" he asks, and he hates how terrified he sounds.

"I'm sorry, son."

"I'm not your son."

He cringes. That sounds harsher than he means it.

"No, but you're on my team. So that makes you my responsibility. That makes you my family. Okay?"

Rossi is really waiting for an answer, and Reid can't think of the right one quickly enough. Instead of acknowledging it, what comes is, "I'm not Italian..."

"That doesn't matter."

Because Rossi answers all his questions, Reid finds the courage to form one more.

"Am I dying?"

"Not on my watch," he promises.

"I can't think."

"That's all right."

"No, it isn't. If I can't think...then...I'm not me, and something's wrong. I don't know how to be this way..." Reid tries to explain, but it's no use.

"How do you feel?" Rossi asks quietly.

"Small."

"Don't worry. It won't last. Just close your eyes."

Rossi's hand is on Reid's forehead.

"It won't last," he repeats, like a promise.

So Reid closes his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

_His priority did not seem to be to teach them what he knew, but rather to impress upon them that nothing, not even... knowledge, was foolproof._  
- J.K. Rowling

For Hotch, knowing is little consolation. It does not change the fact that his team is all injured in some way - all trying to put the pieces back together. It does not change the fact that there are still cases to go over and people who still need their expertise.

In short: the sooner they are back to work, the better.

But at the same time, Hotch realizes that it's impossible to predict who will be ready when, or when they will all be ready for their hectic schedule again. He has it on good authority that JJ is already combing through the new case files, figuring out where to go. He called her to check in. Then, he called Morgan - who from the sounds of things in the background on JJ's call - was busy making a pest of himself watching television loudly.

"It's all he's done," JJ confided quietly in ar hoarse, yet irritated tone. "_Please_ tell me we're going back to work soon."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

She answers too quickly and Hotch knows that. JJ needs more time. Morgan needs more time because of his head injury. Rossi is fine, but instead of going back to work, he stays at the hospital with Reid, who is taking the longest to recover.

That leaves Prentiss and Garcia.

He tries Garcia first, mainly because he wants to end with some hope that his team can start work again soon. Garcia is great at what she does, and Hotch respects her, but she is also the most emotionally fragile, and he will not be surprised to hear her still very distressed about what happened to them.

"Hello?" she answers on the third ring, sounding exhausted.

"Garcia. How are you feeling?"

"Not the best, sir. How are you?"

She doesn't sound the best, but that doesn't stop her from being the only member of his team thus far, to check in with him.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says honestly, ignoring her question. "I was just calling to see how everyone is feeling..." he lets the sentence trail off on purpose, not wanting Garcia to feel rushed or come back before she is truly ready.

"Not the best," she repeats quietly. "But I'll be okay."

"All right. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call. Any of us. Reid is still in the hospital, but the rest of us are available. All right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you." 

* * *

Emily groans and stretches as far as she possibly can, with her knee iced and elevated. She manages to nudge her phone off the coffee table.

"Damn it!" She is done being an invalid. Done recovering from ACL surgery. Done with PT. Done with the counselor she has seen exactly one time. What she needs is to get back to work.

And Hotch is calling.

She lunges for the floor and prays she does not fall.

"Hello?" she asks, not even bothering to right herself first. She is bored. And she does not want this call to go to voice mail.

"Emily. How are you?"

"Hold on one second..." Emily grunts and manages to situate herself again. "Okay... Sorry. What were you asking?"

Emily scowls and mutes the television where five women argue about news and pop culture. Why anyone cares about these shows is beyond her.

"Hotch?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm here. How are you doing?" he presses.

"Bored as hell," she tells him and he laughs.

"I know the feeling," he says, and it makes her feel a little less helpless. A little less angry. A little less everything.

"How soon can you come in?" he asks, and she does mental calculations.

"Desk-ready or field-ready?" she asks, because there is no way she is sitting behind a desk while everyone else goes off without her.

"Either."

"A couple more weeks," she admits. "I mean, I could come in now, but I don't imagine anyone else is ready..."

"You'd be surprised. Morgan is driving JJ crazy. They both want to be here. Rossi's ready when we are. Garcia might need some time, and Reid won't be back for a while yet, but most of us feel the same way you do."

"Did you know that Morgan left? A perfectly good house, guest room, everything. Said _I_ was driving _him_ crazy..."

Hotch laughs. "You're too alike."

Emily presses her lips together, to keep the sharp retort inside. Instead, she chose other words. Words she really meant.

"Hey Hotch? Thanks for the call. Thanks for checking on us."

"You're welcome."


	5. Chapter 5

_"It is always the best policy to speak the truth-unless, of course, you are an exceptionally good liar."_  
- Jerome K. Jerome

Sleeping at JJ's is weird.

First, it's hard to fall asleep. And once he does that, it's impossible to stay asleep. He's got a constant headache that's just bad enough to take him out of sleep. Just bad enough to keep him from relaxing. Then, of course, there's what happened to them.

It hasn't escaped Derek that this happened under his roof. It hasn't escaped him that this could have turned out differently if he paid more attention, but the fact is, he can't change anything now.

Now, he can just live with the echoes of the nightmare - and deal with other nightmares that pile on top of him like suffocating blankets.

He cringes.

Normally, Derek calls Garcia in these moments, but she is dealing with enough. She is using all the strength she has just to keep going day to day. So, Derek lies awake. He listens to JJ move through the house like a ghost. He pretends it doesn't get to him.

His eyes fall closed... 

* * *

It's 1986.

Derek walks down the aisle of the store behind his daddy. He stays close because that's what his daddy always tells him to do, even though Derek is old enough to walk to the corner store by himself. Probably.

His daddy is the best person in the world. He protects his family and has a good job and is always there when Derek or his sisters need anything, and even if they don't. Whenever he goes to work, he gives Mama a hug and tells Derek that he's the man of the house now. He tells Derek to look after them.

It's summer and it's hot. Derek's striped tee shirt is sticking to his skin. He wishes he could take it off, but he knows better. If he takes off his shirt, they won't be able to shop there. Still, Derek wishes his daddy would hurry up. Derek's got things to do. Friends to hang with. Nintendo to play.

He is daydreaming - lagging behind - when he hears it. The click like his dad's service weapon makes. But Derek's daddy isn't in uniform now. Derek glances up just as a kid with a gun pulls the trigger. He doesn't know if the kid is trying to rob the place or what. All Derek hears is the shot. All he sees is his daddy, falling.

"Take care..." the voice nothing like his daddy's rasps as warm red blood soaks his shirt. Derek takes off his own and tries to stop it from gushing.

Derek can't hear because the gun blast was too near and too loud. He doesn't let himself feel scared, but he is shaking.

He prays and nothing happens.

He prays and his daddy dies. 

* * *

It's 1991.

Derek's bigger now. Stronger. He ran a little wild but now things are better. Now he plays football so he can make something of himself.

He's on his way home from football practice with a buddy. They toss the ball around. Take shortcuts.

And Derek almost trips over it. There's a leg. A body. A kid his age. Nobody tells you how dead looks but Derek knows by now. Dead looks worse than he can describe to anyone. Dead looks strange. Unnatural.

So, he runs.

Later, at the cabin, Derek is relieved for the drink. As the pain explodes inside him, he prays.

He prays and nothing changes.

He prays, and a part of himself leaves. 

* * *

It's 2010.

Derek walks into his house, ready to get his Chicago pizza skills on. He doesn't see the man lurking just inside his doorway. Just hears the deafening crack. Feels the blackness like a visceral sensation.

He prays, because it's done him some good. Sometimes.

He prays, and his friends come anyway. 

* * *

Derek's phone vibrates.

He almost ignores the call, but then, he hasn't just been thinking, has he? He's been praying. For something or somebody to step in and help him with all this damn guilt.

"Yeah."

"Hey. You okay?"

Just the sound of her voice eases his mind.

"No. You?"

"Mm-mm..." she denies. "I just was lying in bed, trying to sleep, and failing miserably. So then, I turned on the TV and watched this seriously disturbing movie about...I don't even _know_ what it was about, but it was clearly rated PG for Pretty Gross."

He chuckles. He can't help it.

"I was getting some bad vibes," she says, sobering. "What's up?"

"I never pay attention."

"To what?" She sounds confused. Tired. Sad.

"_Notice_, Penelope," he snaps, and is sorry. But she's here and he doesn't have the first clue how to deal with this. How to heal.

She is quiet, listening, but he doesn't say more.

"This isn't your fault," she whispers, like she means it so much. "None of this is your fault."

Now it's Derek's turn to be silent.

"I'm here," she says, in a small voice, and stays on the phone like she always does. Giving him the mercy he doesn't deserve.


	6. Chapter 6

_This above all; to thine own self be true._  
- William Shakespeare

Truth?

The truth is Garcia can't do anything without remembering the gun in her face. Without remembering another time. Another gun. A long recovery. Relearning everything.

The truth is, she is still slow to pick up on certain things. That has been hard enough to deal with and now there's this. This huge elephant weight of a thing pressing down on her. Crushing her. Stealing her light. Her heart. Herself. Taking it into some quiet darkness and abandoning it there, where it will never make a sound.

Sometimes, Garcia is afraid she will never find herself.

She sleeps a lot. Too much. She has nightmares and wakes with racing thoughts and crazy desires to call up her parents and talk to them. But that's ridiculous, because they aren't here and she is.

The truth is, Garcia was broken enough before - with losing her folks, with being depressed, dealing with death and horrible cases every day. With being shot, and recovering for so long that she literally forgot who she used to be before it happened. With someone breaking into her man's house on what should have been a fun night, and terrorizing them all until they can't breathe or think about anything else. Even now.

What does she regret the most?

Well, that's easy.

She regrets that, then or now, she didn't learn one damn thing. She regrets that after everything she's been through, she remains gullible enough - _weak_ enough - to let a crazy person pull a gun on her for the second time in her life, and do exactly as she is told. Even though, now, she has it imprinted on her brain - what will happen if she listens - but she does it anyway.

So, she sleeps in her regrets and hopes that by some miracle, they go away while she isn't looking.

But they don't. 

* * *

Truth.

She knows Hotch wants them back at work. He hasn't brought it up to her directly but Garcia knows it's true. She may be a little slower on the uptake of information these days, but it's clear to her that everyone is restless.

Morgan calls her every night.

He doesn't call her by name, or he just calls her Penelope, which means he is distancing himself from her, or trying to be all formal with her and that just won't work. If she can't trust her best friends - her coworkers - then who the hell can she trust?

"What's wrong with Garcia?" she asks quietly after he's done ranting about how he doesn't pay enough attention. If that's a sin, then they're all guilty.

"Hm?"

"You used to call me Garcia. Now it's Penelope or nothing. What's wrong with Garcia?"

"Nothing."

"What? Did I _do_ something? Did you send me some kind of cosmic sign that night that I missed?"

She is angry and he is here.

"Penelope? What are you talking about? What's going on with you?" He sounds so confused, but she just gets madder.

"You know what, Derek? Nothing!" She takes a steadying breath and speaks again. "Nothing's going on. I'm okay." 

* * *

Lie.

She is okay.


	7. Chapter 7

_The most important things are the hardest to say, because words diminish them._  
- Stephen King

JJ likes the mindlessness of packing. Now that Derek is back at his house, and work seems imminent, she decides that checking her go-bag is a smart thing to do. She hasn't needed it for a long time, but that is about to change.

Cringing, JJ unzips the bag. She takes out the clothes from the day before Derek's. They are dirty and wrinkled. She takes them to the bathroom to toss down the laundry chute.

Back to the bedroom.

She dumps the bag completely, unearthing the empty travel bottles of aspirin and Listerine that she knows are empty and refilling them. She switches out her dated copy of People for her Kindle. She bites her lip, not seeing her earplugs anywhere, and checks Will's bag. Bingo.

"Why are _our_ earplugs in _your_ go bag?" she snaps as Will makes his way into the bedroom.

He looks surprised. Wary. Like he doesn't know what the right answer is. It irritates her.

"I need them, too, you know? In fact, I think they were originally in my bag..."

"They were," he allows, moving cautiously. "But I was working and you...were..."

"I was _what_?" she demands. "I have spent the last God-knows-how-long combing through new cases! Trying to figure out where the hell we'll go when we go back! It's not like I've been just...sitting on my ass doing nothing!"

"Settle down." He says in the way that only makes her madder.

"Don't tell me to settle down! I'm not some kid! I don't need this from you right now! I'm fine!" JJ is shouting, clearly letting him know she isn't fine, but she doesn't care.

"You're goin' crazy over earplugs."

Because she can't stand being in the same room with him, JJ pushes past him. She goes to the one place in the damn house she can get some privacy. The one place she feels safe.

She locks the bathroom door behind her, grateful that she didn't decide to add her cell to the go bag yet. Not that she's going to call anyone. She's just grateful she has it.

Because she can't shake the habit, JJ checks the window.

It opens.

She breathes a sigh of relief. 

* * *

Time passes. Will knocks. JJ ignores him. She is walking barefoot on the heated bathroom floor. The same path over and over. Finally, she slides down the wall resting her head there. Her phone vibrates and she scowls. If Will is calling her, she's going to give him a piece of her mind.

But no.

"Hotch?" she answers.

"This is the 'Mazing Jack reporting for duty!" a little voice announces and JJ can't fight the smile pulling at her lips.

"Jack?" she asks. "This is JJ. Do you need something? Did you mean to call me?"

"Yes. 'Cause I missed you. So, I readed J...J...on Daddy's phone. And then I called and it worked," Jack says, sounding proud.

"Oh," JJ blinks. "Does your daddy know you're on his phone?"

"No, but please don't tell on me, okay? 'Cause I'm just bored!"

"Jack?" Hotch calls in the background. And then he is talking to her. "Who is this?"

"Hey, Hotch. It's JJ."

"Are you okay?"

She wants to say she isn't the one who called him. That Jack called _her_. But she doesn't want to get Jack in trouble. "Are we going back soon?"

Hotch is silent, waiting. JJ goes quiet, too.

So, they sit like that. Each not talking. Each knowing what the other is thinking. Each not okay by a long shot, but okay with being there for the other.

Okay with listening to everything that isn't said.


	8. Chapter 8

_People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges._  
- Joseph Fort Newton

The BAU is different without all of them here.

Reid is still out. And there's no telling how long.

Garcia has only just made it to work today. She isn't the same. There are no silly nicknames. No smirks across the table. No witty comebacks.

Prentiss moves slower now. All Hotch's efforts to keep her behind a desk have resulted in nothing good. She is on edge, but who is he kidding? They're all on edge.

JJ looks over her shoulder all the time. Has a hand on her neck when she's nervous. Her nerves also show in her mood. She's testy.

Hotch is steady, but checks his phone for calls from home.

Rossi is ready to work, but checks his phone for calls from Reid.

The psych eval is easy enough to pass. Derek feels confident that he is ready to come back. He's back at his place. The same place where it happened. If he can be there. Sleep there. Feel safe there with the help of a state of the art alarm system then he knows he belongs out on the field.

"Annapolis, Maryland," JJ says and an image comes up on the screen. A body beaten bloody.

Emily tips her chin defiantly at the image, like it cannot beat her. Derek doesn't flinch. JJ doesn't look directly at it.

"Home invasion. Third woman in three weeks. The women are shot at close range and the children always end up missing." she says, her voice clear and calm. But Derek notices how she holds onto herself - both arms crossed - fidgeting with one hand. He has seen her wear that posture before. Most recently at Haley's funeral.

"So, why take the kids?" Rossi muses.

Derek sits back in his chair. He has a different question. Why do some people make it out, while others never have the chance? 

* * *

Before he leaves, before he grabs his go bag, before he boards the jet, Derek stops by to see Garcia. She has been distant. Quiet. Serious.

"Knock knock," he calls, tapping on the door. He has her favorite coffee in his hand. He watches as she minimizes a window on her computer screen but not before he reads Support Group at the top of the screen. In a second, her screen is filled with the picture of an off the chain good flourless chocolate torte.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself. I gotta go. But I wanted to drop this off," he says, leaning down to press a kiss into her hair.

When she moves away, he lets her, setting the cup down.

"I'll see you when we get back, okay?"

"Yeah," she responds, sounding distracted.

And it's that. That's what gets him. It's not that Garcia is dressed all business, not a speck of fun or color anywhere on her. It's not even that she won't tolerate affection but it's the distance.

Slowly, he walks out the door, shaking his head, knowing the truth:

He sees it, but he doesn't have a clue what to do about it.


	9. Chapter 9

_Do what you can, with what you have, where you are._  
- Theodore Roosevelt

"Yeah?" Garcia says, harsher than she means to, snatching up the phone.

This case is harder than she thought - trying to stay ahead of a scum bag killing parents and abducting kids to do God-knows-what to them. She feels the pressure more than usual to do right by them. Because now, she knows the fear of someone being where they don't belong - waiting to hurt you - just because they can.

"Garcia?" a familiar voice croaks.

"Boy Genius? What do you want?" She doesn't mean to be short, but she has a job to do. She also has zero energy and a very unclassy sense of doom about her.

"Are you guys working now? Well, obviously you are, or you wouldn't have answered this call."

"Did you need something?" she presses, because she isn't as proficient at doing seventy-billion things at once now. She needs all her brain power to focus on catching their current creep.

"I just...wanted to know if I could help..."

"This case is a home invasion, Reid. You don't want to help with it," she snaps.

"I do, though... Can you send me the files?" he asks sounding tentative.

Morgan's face fills one computer screen, as if by magic. "Baby Girl, where are you with the background info?"

"Sorry...I just..."

"Garcia, we need your head in this."

"I know!" She takes a deep breath. "I know," she repeats. "When I have something, so will you."

"Garcia?"

Reid again.

She tries to breathe. Tries to be patient with him. She knows he must be going stir-crazy right about now. Knows he must want something to distract him from the horrible memories of that night.

"I'm looking for cases similar to this. To see if we can find some kind of a pattern. Cases where the parents are killed and the children are...taken..." she manages.

The line is quiet, but she knows Reid too well to think that he has hung up. He's thinking. That's good. They could use his head in this, too.

Papers rustle and Garcia imagines him flipping through piles of them. She imagines his house like she always does. Pictures it like the lab of a mad scientist. But, she suspects it looks more like that of a neat and nerdy, quirky college kid. Sparsely furnished. More books than furniture probably.

"Did you guys see...there was one like this down the coast! In...Norfolk! Okay! It says here, two weeks ago-"

"Yeah, we got that one, honey. JJ included it in her briefing."

"Oh."

"Keep looking, though. Anything you can think of that might help. Anything you know about cases like these or something that maybe no one's thought of yet..." 

* * *

Garcia's fingers are sore and her brain is tired. Reid has been talking her ear off, feeding her information to feed to the team. Cases with unsubs similar to this. Their habits. How they evaded detection. What happened to the kids they took.

Every time Garcia tells him not to tell her those details, it seems to slip his mind, and he is back to graphically illustrating just what was done to them.

"...And after _that_, he-"

"Reid! I love you but you have got to stop with the skeevy details! Okay? I am begging you. I'm trying to find these kids."

"And I'm trying to help you..." His voice sounds soft. Startled.

Garcia sighs. "I know. And I appreciate it. I _do_. I just need to work. I need to focus on finding these kids." 

* * *

It's Reid's knowledge that cracks it. Instead of calling Garcia, he switches and is talking to JJ. He tells her about some obscure case from 1950 when a child was first thought to be abducted and where that child was found. Where the unsub was eventually caught.

In the end, though, they are too late. It's bad. They bring back one of three children - badly damaged. The sole survivor. A little girl with no parents. No big brothers. She is three years old and all alone.

Garcia closes her eyes. She lets the tears fall as she is reminded yet again of what she knows to be true:

Everything is temporary.


	10. Chapter 10

_We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit._  
- Aristotle

He cannot be the best at everything. This is something Spencer is learning. That sometimes, no matter how fast his mind is running, it isn't fast enough. Sometimes, victims still die. Sometimes, he can't hold back the nightmares. Sometimes, he can't figure everything out.

There have been times that this knowledge has been enough to crush him. After Tobias. After Nathan. After Adam and Amanda. After the girl in witness protection whose abductor was murdered by the girl's own father. That happened right in front of him. Proof that no matter his intellect, bad things still happened. His mother, too, is that kind of proof. And so is the fact that he has been held hostage and shot up with drugs not once - but twice - in four years.

It is enough to drive Spencer to wish. To hope. To want. To crave. It's ridiculous that his very being should desire something that he _knows_ causes him unspeakable grief and heartache. This last time isn't his fault. The time with Tobias hadn't been his fault either. This, Spencer knows, he can't control. But he's been stuck reconciling the existence of a Higher Power as his program suggests. He lives in a world of facts and of logic.

_If a, then b..._

His using has no rational logic and he knows it. He can't control it, and he knows it. He needs something bigger to trust in, but he has been searching and no matter how hard he looks - as hard as he wants to believe - as many times as he goes to churches, synagogues, mosques, - nothing strikes him. Nothing reaches for him. Nothing reassures him.

He tries asking others who has been where he is. But that's just it. No one has been where he is. No one knows him well enough and he isn't comfortable opening up about himself.

He has facts about that, too. If he opens up about himself, people will not understand. They will try and fail. There is no one he trusts that much anyway. 

* * *

It's been months. JJ's gone. JJ was his one confidant with this. And he doesn't even tell her that much. But the truth is, she is the only one who remotely seems to understand his terror...his flashbacks...his feelings of weakness...of stupidity... She tells him to call anytime. She tells him she means it.

He knows she does.

And yet he finds himself incapable of acting on it. Instead, he's irritable on cases. Stunningly unfiltered. He snaps at everyone. It's only Garcia who reacts in a way that makes him want to open up, even if he does not know what to say.

"Come on. Shut the files and talk to me." She walks by and tickles his ear with a feather on her pen. It's pink. The pink hurts his eyes and softness in his ear makes him jerk sideways, nearly falling out of the chair.

"I'd rather do anything else..." he mumbles darkly, his leg propped up on the desk, reading through stacks of files there.

"Well, you know what?" she asks, pulling up a chair next to him. "I'm worried about that."

"Don't be." He can't look directly at her. Her hair is too red. Her glasses framed in a garish green. Her dress is bright yellow. There's a purple flower in her hair. A blue topaz ring on her finger. For the first time, he can't remember if Garcia has a winter birthday, much less, what day it might fall on. He has seen her wear any number of rings, with different birthstones, and imagines her collecting them the way he might, and organizing them by color, shape, or something else entirely.

"Do you know blue topaz is not only the modern birthstone of December but also the Arabic, Ayurvedic, Hebrew and Roman birthstone of November, the Hindu birthstone for the month of December. It's also the talismanic stone of Aquarius, and can be used to represent the Sun Sign of Scorpio or Sagittarius, the Zodiac birthstone Sagittarius and the planetary stone for Sagittarius?" he finishes breathless.

"No, I didn't know that," Garcia says.

A silence falls and Spencer tries to absorb himself in work again. But now, all he can think of are stars and the universe and what, if anything, is out there. What, if anything, can help him?

"Did you know I'm still worried about you?" she asks quietly.

"No," he answers honestly. Most of them leave him alone when he is irritated. They won't push him.

The BAU is dark and quiet, and if Spencer didn't know better he might think that Garcia had stuck around just for this chance to talk to him. But he shrugs that thought away. She has other things to do than hang around to talk to him.

Garcia leans forward in the chair and snags a file off his desk. He bites his lip to stop himself from telling her to put it back.

She stretches out, propping her feet in their sparkly gold heels - on his desk.

"This? Is seriously scary," she says, pointing to a picture he doesn't bother to look at.

"Garcia? What do you believe in?"

Maybe it's the quiet. Maybe it's the intimacy the near-darkness brings, but something gives Spencer the courage to ask. He makes himself look at her, which is like staring into the sun, but she has to know he means this. That he's serious.

"Hmm..." she muses. She puts her feet down, like she needs to anchor herself for this. "Karma...the universe...love..." She lists them, smiling softly to herself.

"God?" It's tentative.

"Yep. Him, too."

"How can you believe in all those things and still have room to reconcile the existence of God?" he asks, not able to hide his own bitterness. He feels prickly around her, because she is one of the only people next to whom he feels exceedingly ordinary, as well as exceedingly heard and respected. It is something he has always wanted. But it is something he needs to get used to.

"I don't know. Oh wait! There's one more thing I believe in!"

"Of course there is," he says, smiling a little. She makes it easy. Her inherent cheer and optimism, despite her own pain and loss.

There is silence.

"Well?"

"You."

"Garcia, I'm not a _thing_," he objects. "I'm not a principle or a moral code or a deity-"

"Hey. You wanna know something? I don't care. You make your own rules in this life. You make your own way and you figure out where to put your time and your energy. You're right. You're none of those things you mentioned. You're more. You're a friend I know I can always count on to be honest with me. To make me laugh. To figure out the most complicated cases. To offer your help without me even having to ask..."

"Yeah, but that case I volunteered my help on didn't get solved. I was too slow. We were too late." His tone sounds empty, like he feels inside.

"Sunshine, that's not what matters," she tells him gently. "What matters is that you put yourself out there! That's awesome! And what you practice? You'll become that. You _are_ that. It's not the results - I wish I could convince you of that - it's the heart behind them Excellence is a habit, somebody important said that-"

"-Aristotle." he interjects.

"Right. So are you gonna argue with a brilliant mind like Aristotle? Excellence isn't all of a sudden, poof, and we're there. We're all works in progress. So practice it."

"...Other things are habits, too..." he mumbles darkly, not able to meet her gaze.

"Yes, they are. But it's up to you what you do about those other things. You have a choice. This is _your_ life. What do you want out of it?"

He considers, silent.

"Definitely, excellence," he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"That's my boy," Garcia smiles. She stands up. Stretches. "Good luck on your search. Remember, searches are my specialty. Come to me again if you need any help."

"I will. Good night, Garcia."

"Night," she echoed, bending down to give his head a kiss, and disappearing in the dark.


	11. Chapter 11

_Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not._  
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

It feels like deja vu stepping through the door of Derek's house, six months later. But they have all decided it is time. It might be okay but for the fact that Derek remains the most stubborn person in the entire world. Anyone else, JJ knows, would have moved. But Derek insists that nobody is going to tell scare him out of his house.

Rossi, she knows, has shown up without incident, and why wouldn't he? He didn't have any demons waiting to haunt him walking in there. In fact, when JJ finally forced herself to get out of the car and walk inside, she found Derek and Rossi in the kitchen, trading pizza secrets.

"It's in the sauce," Rossi is saying, as JJ slips in, glancing behind her for the millionth time. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the two men in the kitchen.

"Don't worry, I checked," Derek reassures, coming over and resting flour-covered hands on her upper arms, leaving his handprints behind on her dark suit jacket.

Though JJ doesn't say anything, and keeps her own arms crossed, Derek draws her to him. Hugs her fiercely. Six months ago, she might have pushed him away, laughed it off, or been embarrassed. Now, she breathes a sigh of relief.

"Come on," he invites. "See if you can get Rossi to give up the secret to his secret sauce..."

JJ clears her throat, and tries to smile. She approaches at Rossi's right side - his stirring side - and waits.

"Well?" she asks.

"Here. Taste," he invites, cupping a hand under the serving spoon and offering it to her.

Instinct has JJ doing as he says, her eyes widening in shock and appreciation. "Wow. What's in this?" she asks innocently, remembering Derek's words.

Rossi laughs, a warm and easy sound. "Not a chance," he says, but he pulls her close, in a rare show of affection. JJ lets out a breath she isn't aware she's been holding. She absorbs the heat of the stove, the smell of the sauce simmering and the safety of being near someone she trusts. And then she hears Rossi's whisper, like a prayer, somewhere above her head.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you." 

* * *

Emily walks confidently, her knee finally out of that damn brace. She doesn't limp. She doesn't bitch. She moves confidently, daring anyone to mess with her. When she arrives at the front door, she knocks brusquely and is admitted by Morgan, who greets her with a smile and an observation.

"Thought it was Hotch."

"Why would you think that?" she asks. It comes out a little harsher than she means it to, but Morgan keeps smiling.

"You knock like a man, woman."

"Oh, really." It's not a question. Her hands go to her hips and when he comes toward her, to embrace her, she backs off.

"JJ, I hope you're supervising things in here so we don't starve," Emily calls, trying to lighten the mood. Her tone. Everything.

"Oh, trust me. I'm not. I'm just the taste-tester," she offers with a wan smile. She can see in JJ's eyes that things are registering - that she is remembering.

The table where Emily was cuffed. Her knee throbs in sympathy. The scratches are still there, from her fight to escape. They both mock her and salute her.

Emily shakes her head, clearing it.

Yes, she was chained there. But she's not anymore.

She is free now.

That's all that matters. 

* * *

"See, the great thing about it is that my beliefs are tailored especially for me. Kind of like a perfect dress..." Garcia trails off and stares at Spencer who is staring back, his expression open, his wit lurking in the background just waiting for an opportunity to make an appearance.

"Okay, scratch that..." she amends, making a scribbling motion with the hand unencumbered by her purse. He holds the door open for her, a strange foreboding gripping him.

Instead of rushing to fill the silence, and cover the feeling, with various facts he knows about world religions, Spencer forces himself to breathe. Garcia, meanwhile, keeps talking.

"A tailored _suit_!" she exclaims and when he says nothing, she looks back. He is standing on the steps, door in hand, biting his lip. He looks handsome with his purple scarf accenting all the muted colors he wears, but his face is clearly troubled.

Garcia backs out the door and stands beside him, silent.

"I don't know why this scares me..." he manages in a tiny voice. "...when I can't remember it."

"Maybe your brilliant subconscious does," Garcia offers gently.

"Maybe," he shrugs, unconvinced, and then, notices what she is offering.

"Here. Hold my hand. We'll go in together," she says, and when he acquiesces, she, too, breathes a sigh of relief. 

* * *

Hotch arrives last, casually dressed, a little rumpled, and offering a strained smile.

This doesn't bother him. In fact, this falls fairly low on Hotch's list of bothersome things. He comes because it matters to his team. Because they need him and he needs them.

They are all sitting down, so Hotch walks up, too, pulling out a chair to join them. 

* * *

This has transformed them, JJ knows.

Emily is more independent. Rossi is more protective. Derek is demonstrative in his affection outside of just Garcia. Garcia is equally likely to be sidelined by depression or continuing to nurture a friendship on any given day. Spencer is more introspective. Hotch, if possible, is steadier. And as for herself? JJ doesn't have time to list the ways this has changed her, but she knows she isn't alone in the change. She knows they all have nightmares. They all look over their shoulders, that it's not just her. They all have triggers. They are all nervous.

To JJ, though, the cracks she sees in her friends' exteriors, and the ones they can see in her... These don't signify that they have been broken.

Cracks mean they are healing.

When Hotch arrives, and they're all around the table like they should be, JJ finally settles in. Her heartrate slows to normal rather than the gallop it has been. The tension eases out of her shoulders. Picking up her slice of pizza, she takes a bite, and nearly moans in pleasure. It's _that_ good.

She looks around the table at each face. Most are at ease. Spencer's, for one, isn't, but JJ actually takes that as a good sign. He isn't trying to mask everything. She catches his eye and offers him a small nod. A smile.

"Miss you," he mouths, his gaze intense and direct across the table.

She gets up then, with no excuse, and embraces Spencer from behind. He looks startled, but pleased.

"What's this for?" he asks, holding onto his pizza, not her.

"You can't miss me if I'm right here, can you?" she asks, her voice low and completely serious in his ear.

"No, I guess not," he muses quietly, relaxing in her grip. "I guess not."

And with her embrace, truth descends upon him. It's not loud and frightening. Nor is it timid and ashamed. It's just here, among them. A fact.

He is okay.

They are all okay.


End file.
